


Blood and Ink

by likethenight, rainflash



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainflash/pseuds/rainflash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel remembers a piece of his previous life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Ink

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of a larger piece that never got finished. All you really need to know is that when Glorfindel was sent back, the Valar decided not to give him all of his memories back right away. This is set during the Second Age, once things had calmed down a bit.

Glorfindel froze, all motion arrested as he was assailed by memories; small fragments of a life all but forgotten, slowly coalescing to form...one face...one person. Tall, taller by perhaps a finger's breadth than Glorfindel himself, slender yet strong, elegant and graceful, dignified yet possessed of an acute wit, sharp humour and a sense of fun that belied his years. Fine-cut cheekbones, sparkling blue-grey eyes, like water cascading in sunlight, thick, glossy black hair that shone silver in certain lights; a face of surpassing beauty, turning in response to a name.

A name. The name that had haunted Glorfindel for longer than he could remember, without a face or a reason until now. The name that had been driving him from his wits.

Ecthelion...

Glorfindel sank down on a nearby window-seat, his legs suddenly unwilling to hold him. Ecthelion. How could he not have remembered until now? His oldest, dearest friend, who had supported him all through that terrible crossing of the Grinding Ice, who had become all and everything in the world to him, who had been irretrievably lost to shadow and flame. Staring unseeingly out of the window at the gardens below, Glorfindel let the memories overwhelm him.

Strong arms, holding him close, warming him up, that night on the Ice when he had pushed himself almost beyond the limits of his strength. That soft black hair, drifting in front of his eyes. The bubbling, ringing laugh, like a deeper version of the fountains that gave Ecthelion's House its name. The illicit thrill of slipping between each other's quarters, trying to keep the nature of their relationship a secret from their friends, their people. Explosive arguments and equally passionate reconciliations, constant teasing and taunting, in public as well as in private. On reflection, Glorfindel had to admit that most of their friends probably knew all along just what went on when they closed their doors. Their friends. Galdor, still occasionally to be seen in Rivendell, on some errand or other from Cirdan, in whose court he now resided. Tall, silent Laiqalasse, Galdor's lieutenant, whose sharp eyes had led his people to safety...but Glorfindel's mind would not recall more, not now. Only the amused face of his King, Turgon son of Fingolfin, as he listened to another of Ecthelion and Glorfindel's outrageous stories. All gone now, all gone...and with them an irreplaceable piece of his heart.

But none more irreplaceable than the Lord of the Fountain. Glorfindel pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, curling into himself as he tried to absorb the grief that broke over him like a wave. By the Valar, he could even remember the scent of Ecthelion's hair, clean and fresh and yet slightly musky all at the same time, could almost feel the soft caress of his breath on the back of his neck...and he could definitely feel the searing pain that now dragged across the nape of his neck, like a needle being repeatedly scratched there. He touched his fingers to the place and brought them away sticky red with blood, but also the tiniest hints of green and gold. Ink?

And the memory clicked into place, the long afternoon he had spent with his head tipped forward and his hair brushed out of the way, as Ecthelion etched into his skin that golden flower with its garland of leaves, the dewdrops on the tips of the leaves symbol of the love the Fountain Lord held for him. The raw pain as the needle broke the skin, the ink's stinging rush mingling with his blood, the cool breeze from the open window and Ecthelion's warm breath...the sensations wrapped themselves around him so that when he opened his eyes (although he did not remember closing them) he was utterly disorientated to find himself on a windowseat in a corridor of the House of Elrond, looking across the Valley of the Bruinen. He stared again at his fingertips, wondering where the blood and ink had come from...wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing, because the pain was fading now, barely even there any more as he struggled back to reality. What was happening to him? He stayed curled up there for some time, trying to reassert his hold on the world around him, frightened and grief-stricken and terribly disorientated.

~~~~~~~~~~

"What's this?" Erestor traced curious fingers over the skin at the nape of Glorfindel's neck, his other hand still sifting compulsively through the Elda's thick, silky hair.

"What's what?" Glorfindel enquired drowsily, still lost in the sensation of those gentle fingers combing through his hair.

"What's this? This wasn't here before."

Glorfindel sighed in irritation. "What's *what*, meleth-nin? I can't tell you unless you tell me. You're the one that can see it, remember?"

Erestor paused, tracing his fingers again over the bright design etched into Glorfindel's skin. "This. Looks like a tattoo. A golden flower, surrounded by leaves. Very appropriate, meleth. When did you have it done?"

Glorfindel's sharp intake of breath stilled Erestor's fingers. The Elda was silent for a long moment, and Erestor was beginning to wonder whether he was going to answer at all. But eventually he spoke, his voice distant and so, so sad. "In the year four hundred and seventy-three of the First Age of Arda, two years after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, when those of us who survived were still trying to reassure ourselves that we lived indeed, and would continue to do so."

It was Erestor's turn to be speechless. The First Age? But...his mind shied away from the many implications of his lover's speech. Silence hung between them for some time, before Erestor's rationality got the better of him. "But it was not there last week, meleth. Of that I am certain."

Glorfindel raised his head, remembering now that strange interlude in the corridor, the pain in the back of his neck and the blood and ink on his fingers, though half an hour later his skin had felt as smooth and unmarked as ever. He turned his head, catching his lover's eyes. "It was given me by someone very dear to me, in that year, when suddenly as never before we were all in need of reassurances that our kind were immortal, everlasting. I wore it for him until the day that I died. And then I forgot. Death, and re-embodiment, smoothed away all recollection of my former life and I began as new, only knowing dimly that I had lived before. The memories have been returning to me slowly, a little here, a little there, never enough to make sense or reassure me, only to taunt and torment, dancing at the edges of my recollection. Until a few days ago, when for the first time the memories fitted together to form a coherent whole, and I remembered my old...friend." He paused for a moment over the word 'friend', and Erestor's heart almost stopped, although he had reasoned with himself many times before that Glorfindel had lived an entire other life before they met, and that it stood to reason that he must have shared his heart with someone. Glorfindel shook his head, and Erestor forced himself to concentrate as his lover began to speak again. "The memories returned, and with them pain, just there, where your fingers are so soothing now. I touched the place, and my fingers came away stained with blood and ink. The tattoo, I suppose, must have manifested itself when the memories made themselves clear, the memories of the day it was drawn, and - and the person who drew it." He dropped his gaze, suddenly unable to look Erestor in the eye any more.

Erestor's heart contracted with sorrow and sympathy for his lover. Who was he to feel jealous and insecure over a past love, someone who, from Glorfindel's palpable misery, was long dead and not returned? He drew Glorfindel into his arms and held him, stroking his hair soothingly and thinking deeply. Although he knew he should not pry, he could not help wondering who Glorfindel's lover had been. He searched his memory for the tales of Gondolin that he and Ereinion had been told in the nursery and the schoolroom. Not Galdor, that was certain, or he would have resumed their relationship long before this. Not Turgon, for he had ever mourned the loss of his beloved wife. Not Idril, either, for she had loved only Tuor. Despite himself, Erestor racked his brains for any hint. And then, slowly, like a diver making for the surface, a memory swam to the front of his mind, of Glorfindel, concussed and half-delirious, reaching out for him and whispering a name, a name that was as well-known to him as that of Glorfindel himself.

"Ecthelion," he breathed, not realising he spoke aloud until he felt Glorfindel stiffen in his arms. Instantly he moved to soothe his lover, tightening his arms around him and continuing to stroke his hair. "I am sorry, meleth-nin. I did not mean to speak aloud, nor to cause you pain."

Glorfindel was silent a moment, torn between wanting to confide in Erestor, to tell him everything and unburden his soul, and wanting desperately not to hurt him, for how could he talk of the love of his past life without hurting the love of his present? And yet there was no use denying it, his body's reaction had already told Erestor that his guess was the right one. Glorfindel drew in a long, shuddering breath and nodded. "Yes. Ecthelion was my love, then."

He was astounded to hear a smile in Erestor's voice when he replied. "I always wondered, you know. The tales always mention you together, never alone. Ereinion and I were secretly convinced, when we were old enough to understand such things, that there was a reason for that. And although Galdor never said anything when we badgered him for stories, there was a look in his eye that told us we were right."

Glorfindel sighed. "So all our efforts came to naught, and all our friends knew about us, and a pair of Elflings could tell just by reading the tales. I wonder why we bothered."

Erestor laughed, grateful for this moment of levity, for he had truly been almost at a loss for words. And yet, to this one he knew the answer, seemingly better than Glorfindel himself. "Because it was something that belonged only to you, meleth-nin. Something that was no business of theirs, or of any of your people. Something that was all the more precious because you shared it with him and no-one else."

Glorfindel closed his eyes against the tears that were suddenly threatening to fall, grateful beyond words for his lover's gentle understanding. He curled closer into Erestor's arms, resting his head upon his shoulder. "Hannon-lle, meleth-nin," he whispered, and Erestor smiled and pressed a gentle kiss into his hair, resolutely ignoring the irrational stab of pain in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> We fudged canon a bit and decided that Galdor is one and the same.


End file.
